Steel Country Boxset

by Fields, MJ

  I nod. “They’re all nice.”

  “Did you think I’d want a bunch of dicks around you?” he asks, which makes me silently chuckle. “What the hell does that mean?” he asks, referring to my laughter.

  “Well, the men far exceed the female—”

  He grabs me up, one arm under my knees, the other behind my back. I link my hands behind his neck and kiss him.

  Against his lips, I whisper, “My man.”

  “My woman.” He smiles against my lips.

  “Mmmm...” I pull back and look into those eyes, those not so mysterious eyes that are even more breathtaking now that I know what most of his looks mean. They mean everything.

  I hear a car in the distance and look back over his shoulder as I rub my thumb on the anchor tattoo on his neck

  “I got you, too,” he whispers.

  “Well, good, because I don’t know anyone else in the world who can hold me down, anchor me, and lift me up at the same time.”

  His eyes narrow. “I’ll always do that, squirt.”

  “I know.” I kiss the tattoo. “Now my parents are here. You wanna set me down?”

  He shakes his head no. “But I will.”

  I kiss him quickly again before he lowers my legs, my hands still linked behind his neck. I don’t want to let go.

  He winks

  “You nervous?”

  He shrugs. “Might be if I wasn’t sure this was what we both wanted.”

  I step away, taking his hand in mine as the car gets closer. He squeezes it then walks toward the now parked car and opens the passenger door.

  My mom looks up, her eyes widening when she sees him.

  “Mom, this is Gage, my...” I pause, and he squeezes my hand, giving me encouragement. “My boyfriend.”

  Before she has even stepped out, my father is out of the car and next to me. “This place is yours?”

  Gage takes my mom’s hand and helps her out as he nods to my dad. “Yes, sir.”

  “And you live here?”

  “When I’m not here, I’m at my place in New York City,” he answers. “Nice to meet you. I’m Gage Falcon.”

  “What do you do in the city?” my father continues his line of questioning.

  Gage is shaking dad’s hand, and my mom is still clutching his other, so I interrupt, “Gage, my father, Arun, and my mother, Bopha.”

  “Welcome to Falcon’s Landing,” he says as I hug my mom, and she finally releases his hand.

  “So, you live in the city and here?” my father continues, not missing a beat.

  “Dad,” I start, hoping to remind him he doesn’t have to rush. We have two days for him to question Gage.

  Gage winks at me. “Why don’t you take your mom and show her where they will stay, while I give Arun a tour.”

  I realize I haven’t even come close to preparing him for the fact that my parents are so used to finding out as much information about the people they come into contact with in a short amount of time in hopes to build what they consider a relationship based on a thirty-minute treatment. That this...this may feel like a CIA interrogation.

  Gage

  Arun asks a lot of fucking questions, mostly about my line of work and Falcon’s Landing. I get the feeling he thinks I’m undecided about what it is I want to do when I “grow up.” I’m not used to men firing question after question at me. If he was anyone else, I would have ended it really fucking quick. But since Phoenix is his daughter, I allow it.

  Within twenty minutes, he knows I own a construction company that was started by my mother and adoptive father, he knows I have been running it from here for the past month, he’s met Mags, and thankfully, Mags gave him a few sips of shine so he’s not so fucking uptight.

  Sitting on the back deck, we watch the Steel families all playing in the lake, and I decide that since he’s a little bit more chill, there’s no time like the present.

  “Arun, I would like you to know that I have every intention of asking Phoenix to be my—”

  “You wanna marry her.” He nods and looks around. “She’s a hard worker. She can help—”

  “I’m marrying her, not hiring her,” I tell him.

  He looks at me. “Marriage will last if you work side by side. You are never more important than she, and she never more important than you. Partners in everything.”

  I nod. I get what he’s putting down, and from what little Phoenix has told me, it makes perfect sense.

  “She wants to work, she can. She wants to stay home and have a dozen kids—”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “Phoenix must work.”

  The man is pissing me off a tad. I want to tell him it doesn’t matter if she does or doesn’t, but then he leans in.

  “Phoenix must work, just like her mother. If she doesn’t work, she’ll feel less valuable. She doesn’t feel of value to you, then you don’t marry her. My daughter was raised to work and not expect or take a hand out. My grandchildren will be raised the same.”

  I nod. “Agree.” I hold out my hand to shake his. It feels kind of like a business arrangement, but I will take it.

  He leans in. “October is best for us for a wedding. Big wedding.”

  I see Phoenix and her mother coming out of the house and look at my watch.

  Thirty fucking minutes, that’s it?

  I look up, and Phoenix shrugs.

  I give her a holy shit look, and she laughs.

  “Beautiful place, Gage Falcon.” Bopha smiles and gives a slight bow.

  “Thank you.”

  She takes my hands and looks at them, and then looks back at Phoenix. “He’s a hard worker.”

  Phoenix smiles. “Yes, he is.”

  “Marry him,” she says, pinching her cheek.

  “Oh, my God, Mom,” Phoenix gasps, but in her beautiful, almost black eyes, I see happiness, excitement, and acceptance.

  “October, big wedding, already discussed with Gage,” Arun tells his wife.

  “What?” Phoenix gasps.

  I laugh, and when she looks at me, I tell her, “It’s already been discussed.”

  This book is dedicated to my mom, who doesn’t read my books because they are...naughty. I’m glad you don’t. My ass aches from the thought of the flyswatter lashings I would get. And yes, I know you can still spank my ass. It’s your right and responsibility as my mom...forever.

  You have raised five children to never see color, social, or economic status as a determining factor of a person’s worthiness in friendship or respect. Worthiness is dependent on the person’s actions, character, and never societies’ stereotypes. Love is a guarantee, regardless.

  Good is good, and bad is bad. It’s in actions and words. It’s in the way we lead our lives and in our treatment of others.

  You raised dozens and dozens more humans while working full-time and dealing with five biological children. Very different children, on very different paths. Because of that, of you fostering so many children from so many different backgrounds and beginnings, your words, your expectations, and your demands of how we treat others were shown. We learned from your actions, words, and love in the truest form.

  Humans are flawed, none are less or more deserving of love, and we all choose who we become. Once we decide, decide not to wallow in our past or imposed pains, decide to be the good, treat others good, life changes.

  I love you because of...

  The Playlist

  “Bruises” by Lewis Capaldi

  “A Little Bit Stronger” by Sara Evans

  “In Case You Didn’t Know” by Brett Young

  “Flatliner” by Cole Swindell (Feat. Dierks Bentley)

  “Who I Am With You” by Chris Young

  “Bless The Broken Road” by Rascal Flatts

  “Remember When” by Alan Jackson

  Listen On Spotify

  To The Reader

  We are not born with the ability to choose where we come from. Social and economic statuses are no more a choice than color, nationality
, or birth families.

  Life is neither black nor white. It’s not cut and dry. A person’s suffering may be more visible on the surface due to social and economic factors, while others suffer in silence, behind pretty clothes, nicer “walls,” and hidden pains.

  Unfortunately, some are raised to dwell on the things in which they cannot change, and they find comfort in the negativity in which they are surrounded by, instead of looking toward a future and daring to take a chance on themselves and the little lives they may someday bring into the world, hoping, praying, and damn near demanding better for themselves and those they love.

  What you see on the surface—judgement if you will—isn’t always the cold, hard truth. We are not born with the right to judge. We do not die better people because we have judged, but we all do it.

  Garrett and Juliana’s story shows two people whose visible scars are of different shades. One can be seen from miles away, while the other’s is hidden behind pretty walls. Yet, they are not much different at all.

  Their paths are different, their lives are different, the color of their skin is different. Visibly, they are different. But, when you step back and watch their journey, on their dirt road to something better, are they really that much different?

  You decide.

  XOXOXO MJ

  *This book does contain triggers in the form of flashbacks*

  Chapter One

  Vegas

  Garrett

  “I paid extra for this, Cherry,” I grumble when the prostitute with the clean bill of health looks over her shoulder at me, wide-eyed and a bit fucking nervous.

  “But...” she begins then stops when I roll off the bed, stand up, and walk over to do another line of coke off the small square mirror on the hotel room’s dresser.

  “All set,” I say as I swipe my hand under my nose, ridding myself of the excess powder under it.

  “But...” she begins again.

  “Butt, anal. Yeah, that. Take the cash, and I’ll get someone else,” I say, tossing it on the bed.

  “But...” she says again, and this time I let the whore finish. “You’re...big.”

  “Six-foot-two, two hundred pounds,” I say, grabbing my jeans. “If my cock was small, I’d look fucking ridiculous.” Pulling up my jeans, I walk to the door and open it as she jumps up and grabs her clothes. “Next!” I yell out into the hallway.

  “Give me a fucking minute,” I grumble into the mattress as my arms get jacked up behind me.

  “It’s time for you to go home,” a voice, that certainly isn’t the whore whose ass I just tore up, booms in my ear.

  I start to struggle, but there is no fucking point. I did enough coke, drank enough whiskey, and fucked enough pussy and ass in the past few days that I am destroyed.

  “Who the fuck are you?” I ask, still trying to fight.

  “Patrick Security. Your brother sent us.”

  “Fuck,” I groan as they release me.

  “Get dressed.”

  “I’d like to fucking shower,” I snarl at the two fucking goons.

  “You got three minutes,” he says.

  Fucking Gage.

  Looking out the window of the rented SUV, I grab the bag that the two goons threw my shit in, pulling out my sunglasses and a bottle of pills. I toss back a few Vicodin, put on my shades, lean back, and let those fucking pills take me to a place where I’m numb. A place where I give no fucks about my brother who can do no wrong. A place where I don’t see disappointment in my mother’s and father’s eyes. A place where there are no secrets. A place where there is no pain. A place where the damned have a reprieve, the broken feel whole, and no one puts hands on anyone who doesn’t want it.

  Numb.

  Through the haze, I make my way out of the vehicle and into a private jet, where I sit down and close my eyes, enjoying the high, the numbness, knowing I am heading for hell.

  I am without sleep. Can’t find it. How the hell can I sleep when I am being dragged back to face what I have been running from for six years?

  Six fucking years!

  I unbuckle my seatbelt and walk to the bar.

  “Do you think that’s a wise idea?” one of the two goons asks.

  I set the rocks glass I had grabbed down and take the bottle of whiskey instead.

  “I don’t know who the fuck you are, so I’m not about to tell you what I think is or isn’t wise.” I tip the bottle back in my mouth and drink it a quarter of the way down.

  “Your brother asked us to find you.” One of the two copper-haired, blue-eyed, suit wearing fuckers stands up and walks over as I sit back down. He hands me a card. “I really don’t give a fuck.”

  I toss the card beside me, lean back, take another swig, and then the fucker pulls it away.

  “Fuck—”

  “Xavier Steel is our brother-in-law,” he snarls. “You wanna pop a handful of pills, and then down a bottle of whiskey, you go right ahead, but not on our time.”

  “That name supposed to make me shake in my boots?” I laugh. “I’ve known him for years. Long before he had fucking money.”

  “Money doesn’t impress us, asshole. Doing the fucking job right does,” the other one speaks up.

  I lean my head back and close my eyes. Fuck them. Fuck every single one of them.

  Seven Years Ago...

  On the outskirts of Asbury Park, I pull up in front of the little rundown ranch that I assume was once painted white, but the paint is now nearly gone. What’s left of it is chipping and peeling off the shithole.

  I turn off the engine of my Hellcat. Fucking thing sticks out like a sore thumb in this area of town. Should have taken Razor’s beater for a trip like this, but he was fucked up when he gave me the name and location of his dealer. I certainly wasn’t going to give him the keys to my ride or stick around for him to realize the fact that he fucked up. I could now go right to the source to score the Blueys or Sticks I needed to turn off the noise in my head.

  Mom caught on to the fact that her little stash of Xanax she would pop when she flew was dwindling at a rapid speed. Didn’t ask my older brother Gage if it was him, but she sure as fuck asked my younger brother Gray and me. I wasn’t going to let him take the shit for me, so I owned it. Now she locks them up.

  You know what a seventeen-year-old with a big fucking wallet and no responsibility does with his disposable income and a mom who decides to lock up her pills? Not buy fucking baseball cards. But that’s what they think. Or maybe it’s what they want to believe. Either way, I need the shit, so I’m going to fucking get it.

  The front windows are boarded up, there is no street lights or light illuminating from the windows, and some thugs a few houses down are hanging out on their porches, pointing at me.

  A bit of nervousness washes over me, but the thought of another night getting fucked up on coke that is readily available in my town, just to stay awake, shakes that feeling off really quick-like.

  I walk up the steps, keeping the guys a few houses down in my peripheral, and my foot goes through the top one. Immediate pain, and then the feeling of warm liquid running down my leg causes me to curse. “Fuck.”

  I hear the sound of someone sniffing as I pull my leg out of the damn hole and look toward the source of the sound.

  I see someone sitting against the house in the dark corner, knees pulled up to their chest, arms wrapped around them, and shoulders hunched forward. A car passes by, casting a light on them.

  It’s a girl with two long pigtail braids, hair sticking out of them.

  When another car passes, she stands and walks closer to me.

  She’s not a girl. Well, not a young girl, anyway. She has on denim overall shorts with a tank top underneath. She’s rail thin, but has a nice rack.

  “You looking for Deeds, you’re two blocks away.” She points left.

  Her voice is rough, deeper than I expected. Her tone isn’t warm or inviting, not like her look. Of course it’s not. This is a fucking drug house.

 
“Deeds?” I ask, trying to remember if that’s the name Razor spilled.

  “He buys the cars. No one here’s got that kind of bank.” She shrugs then points down. “You’re bleeding through your jeans.”

  As I look down, she squats and grabs the cuff of them, pulling them up. Then she looks up at me.

  “Got a lighter?”

  Fuck, she’s kind of beautiful in a totally unbeautiful way. Her hair makes no sense, her clothes are ridiculous, her shoes, well, I’ve seen my mom throw out flip flops that were a fuck of a lot less worn. A long strand of black waves hangs down the front of her face, and my hands itch to push it back, but I can’t. I can’t fucking touch her.

  “Lighter?” she asks again, bringing me back to the here and now.

  I reach into my pocket, pull out the black Zippo, and hand it to her. She takes it and lights it.

  “Dang, that’s pretty—”

  “Fuck,” I snap when she touches it.

  “—bad.” She looks up at me, and I can tell she’s trying not to smirk.

  “And that’s fucking funny to you?” I ask, trying not to do the same damn thing, but I can’t help smiling.

  Her eyes are the lightest shade of brown I have ever seen, freckles bridge her nose, and from what I can see, her tits are nice. Better than nice. Her tits are perfect. Looking over her head, I see the roundest little ass I have ever seen. I’m damn sure I could bounce a quarter off that thing.

  Shaking her head, she pulls a bandana out of her pocket and holds it against my wound.

  “Thanks,” I say as she ties it in the back.

  “Should stop the bleeding, or at least slow it down.” She stands, hands me the lighter, and steps back.

  “What’s your name?”

  “What’s it matter?” She shrugs then turns her back to me.

  Suddenly, I’m afraid I will never see her again.

  I grab her elbow, stopping her.

  She looks back with fear in her eyes. No, terror. I recognize that look. I wore it once before...many years ago.

  Needing to keep her here, not wanting her to go inside because what if...What if something happens to her?